What We Do
by jklinerd
Summary: Remus struggles to resist Tonks but so close to the full moon, the animal is hard to ignore. HBP-based with the correct full moon cycle instead of JKR's.
1. Chapter 1

The sunlight streams through his window and he rolls over, away from the light, and shields his face with his arm. His body aches, his joints burn in the sockets, and he feels every movement he makes. He smells sweat and alcohol and smoke in the sheets, doesn't smell her, doesn't smell them. Hasn't for ages. It is now his own failure that keeps him company, day in and day out. Somewhere else in the house he hears someone banging around, shouting, stomping up the stairs. He can't stay in bed all day long, he knows this, but he wants to, longs to.

There's a knock at the door and then Molly's motherly voice reaches his ears. "Remus, dear? Why don't you come and have some breakfast."

He stays still, unable to find the energy to push back the covers and climb from the comfort of his bed. He thinks of answering, thinks of telling Molly he doesn't feel well but the door opens a crack before he can and he closes his eyes as Molly steps into the room. She stays near the door for a moment, no doubt watching him, and then she walks to the bed. "Remus, you need to eat." She places a gentle, cool hand on his shoulder and he slips his arm away from his face, looks up at her wearily.

"I'm fine, Molly. Really." He wishes she would leave. He hates that she's seeing him this way, so vulnerable and alone.

She purses her lips, her cheeks flushing the longer she watches him, and then she puts her hands on her hips. "Remus John Lupin, I expect to see you in the kitchen in five minutes. Understood?" She nods her head and doesn't wait for an answer before turning and walking from the room. He stares at the open door in bewilderment. Did Molly Weasley really just treat him like one of her own children?

He lies in bed for a few more minutes, staring at the wall and listening to the sounds out in the hallway, upstairs, and all over The Burrow. He knows that Molly expects him for breakfast, no excuses, so he pushes back the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He sits for a moment, shoulders hunched, to allow his body to adjust to motion. The full moon is days away and his body knows this, burns with the knowledge of it. He groans quietly as he stands and shuffles to the door to close it so he can dress.

The floor is cold and the room is cold and everything is a bit cold, he notices as he walks to his wardrobe. He dresses in a simple pair of slacks that are worn but comfortable and pulls on a thin, pale blue cotton dress shirt. His hands shake as they move down the front of his shirt, fastening each button in turn. He stares at his assortment of threadbare cardigans before sighing ruefully and pulling one from the hanger.

As he pulls on a pair of socks and his shoes, his stomach sours and he wishes he hadn't had so much scotch the night before. He drank last night because she was over, for the meeting, and seeing her, smelling her, feeling her brush past him in the hallway created such an intense ache in his chest that he thought he'd have to take his own life to make it go away. Scotch dulled the ache and made him so sleepy that he was barely able to undress before falling into bed, his skin damp with sweat and his heart thudding wildly in his chest. He drank to forget the feel of her, drank to forget the way her lips brushed his neck in the night, to forget the way she said his name when they were alone, to forget how she looked at him, how she always looked at him as if he were nothing more than fully human (which makes him feel like he's standing in front of her, stark naked).

He pulls open the door and steps cautiously into the hallway. At Christmas, with so many people in the house, one ran the risk of being run over just leaving a room. Shouts and laughter emerge from the kitchen and he pulls his cardigan tighter around his body, suddenly self-conscious about his unsteady gait and gaunt appearance. Harry and Ron returned home the night before but he was tucked away in his room with a book and a bottle of scotch and had ignored their requests for an audience with him.

"Professor Lupin!" Harry calls brightly, motioning to the seat beside him as Remus enters the kitchen.

"Good morning, Harry. Everyone." He glances around the table at all the Weasleys, at Hermione, and slides into the seat beside Harry. "I trust you had a good trip home." He smiles gratefully to no one in particular as the tea pot drifts toward him. "Just black, thank you." The teapot fills his cup and drifts away, stopping to top off Arthur's cup along the way.

"Our trip home was fine. 'N' you'd know that if you'd open your door last night." Quips Ron, taking a bite of toast. Remus feels his cheeks flush and he looks down at his plate. There's a sound and then Ron blurts, "What'd you do that for?"

"Ignore him, Professor." Hermione says quickly, smiling at him from across the table. She glares at Ron, who is rubbing his arm with a confused expression on his face. "How have you been?"

Remus musters a smile as he summons a few pieces of toast and the jam jar. "I've been fine, Hermione, thank you. How was your term, then?" He suspects none of them knows about how he has spent his time. Molly and Arthur are honest with their children but do not divulge everything, and for that, he's grateful. The less they know, the better.

Hermione launches into a day-by-day retelling of first term and Remus follows along as best he can. Ginny, Ron, and Harry interject here and there, occasionally talking over one another, and he relaxes into the normalcy of the moment, eating his breakfast with a sincere smile on his face as he listens to their stories.

Being at The Burrow, surrounded by so many people he loves, feels like being a member of a very large family. He's not had this in quite a long while, hasn't had the comfort of sitting with people who naturally include him in their conversations, in their lives, while allowing him the opportunity to slip away and exist on his own. He owes Molly and Arthur a debt that can't be repaid; they have opened their home to him, taken him in and cared for him after the full moon for the past several months. He can never risk staying long, cannot risk humanising himself even further, and he knows in two nights, he'll be back out there again, with the pack. He has risked a great deal by staying with the Weasleys for so long and so close to the full moon, but his body and mind are weary and at the moment, he doesn't quite care what the pack will think when he returns.

"Professor?" Harry's quiet voice breaks his reverie and he swallows the toast he has been chewing.

"Yes, Harry?" When he sips his tea, he burns his mouth.

"You feeling all right?" Harry's eyes make a quick assessment of Remus' face and he reminds himself of his reflection the last time he saw it. Fresh cuts that would now be close to healing, pale skin, hollow eyes. "You look a little…well…" Harry trails off, his eyes meeting Remus'.

"I'm fine. Just a bit worse for the wear." He takes a more cautious sip of tea and smiles as reassuringly as possible. He feels much worse for the wear in so many ways.

Harry raises one eyebrow and leans in closer so no one else will hear him. "What has Dumbledore asked you to do?"

Remus turns his mug in his hands slowly, contemplating the truth and how much of it should be told, but Arthur interjects before he can sort it all out in his mind. "Kids, why don't you begin clearing the table?"

A chorus of groans arises in response and Molly eyes them all sternly. As the children (though to be fair, they're hardly children at this point) begin to clear the dishes by magical means, Remus finishes his toast and tea and enjoys a quick chat with Fred and George, who show him their latest creation – a candy cane that turns into a worm in your mouth.

"Not one of our best," George intones with a shrug, "but popular nonetheless."

Remus stays in the kitchen until the dishes are clean and put away, and then he's not sure what to do with himself. After sitting in the living room with everyone for a bit, he tires of attempting to keep up with the various conversations and goes to the coat closet for his wool cloak. He slips out unnoticed into the chilly late morning air and pulls his cloak closer to his body.


	2. Chapter 2

The cold air doesn't do much for his aches and pains but it clear his head and allows him the clarity of thought he's not had in a long while. He will be done soon, he thinks, because there's not much else he can learn from Greyback and the others. Their plan is relatively simple, so simple that it sometimes overwhelms Remus at its sheer magnitude of horror: bite as many people, as many children as possible. He has run with them, run after people, snapping at their heels and kicking up snow, aware and yet unaware of his actions. It has been a nightmare, one long day after another, bonding with them, tricking them, almost getting caught, risking too much for a glimpse of her.

He shakes his head and stops to rest against a tree some way from The Burrow. His obsession stands to jeopardise everything and worse, it puts her in grave danger. On the long nights, the painfully lonely nights, he turns to his memories of her and sinks in them, sleeps in them, and whatever pleasure he takes from those memories is evident on his face because the following morning, one of the pack always has some remark to make. It has been happening too often and it must stop.

He hears feet crunching over snow behind him, smells her before he sees her. "Remus?" Her voice sounds crystalline reflected by the snow. He pushes himself away from the tree trunk and looks over his shoulder as she approaches.

"Dora." When he says her name, she stops, her mittened hands pressed together in front of her. She's wearing the funny knit cap with long ties that end at her chest. He loves that cap and remembers a happier time, last winter, when he caught her in his arms and tickled the end of her nose with a tufted end of one of the ties. He turns to face her and slips his hands in his pockets to resist reaching for her. "What brings you to The Burrow this morning?"

She steps toward him slowly, her eyes wide and beautiful. When she stops at his side, it takes all of his strength not to wrap himself around her, to hold her close, to feel her warmth against his warmth. He watches, as if in a trance, when she pinches a bit of his cloak between her fingers.

"Just came 'round to see if there was any news."

"Since last night?" It comes out accusatory and rude. He looks at the ground, then back at her. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs, rubs the fabric between her fingers, then lets her arm fall back to her side. "Don't pretend you don't know why I'm here. It's insulting." She stares off into the distance, squinting against the bright light reflecting off the snow, and rocks back and forth on the heels of her black boots absently. He can tell she wants to yell at him but when her eyes shift back to his face, she frowns and lifts a hand, sweeping the hair off his forehead a bit. He shivers all the way down to his toes.

"Please don't." He catches her wrist and pulls her hand away from his face before she can do any more damage. "Please."

She scowls at him and yanks her arm out of his grasp. "You look terrible, Remus. Why won't you let someone take care of you? Noble prat." She walks a few feet away and kicks at a little drift of snow.

"Someone is taking care of me." He joins her at the little drift of snow and stoops to scoop some of it up in his hands. "Molly makes sure I eat at least three hot meals a day while I'm visiting and her salves and potions do wonders for my cuts and bruises." He walks away from Dora slowly, eyes to the ground, searching for the perfect patch of snow. "She also sees that my clothes are patched and mended."

He packs the snow a bit more and smiles to himself as he turns to throw the snowball. He's not expecting the ice cold impact against his face though, and staggers backward, blinded by the snow. His perfect snowball falls to the ground as he wipes at his face but it's useless. She gets in three more good hits before relenting long enough to duck behind a tree.

The strange sound he hears is laughter. His laughter. It bubbles up from deep in his chest as he wipes the remaining snow from his face. Her giggles drift out from behind a nearby tree and he scoops up some snow, tiptoes toward the tree with his arm cocked. He rounds the trunk as quickly as his body will allow and he throws, satisfied when snow spills down Dora's front. He lifts his arms, triumphant, and does not see the stub of an old tree poking up from the snow. The snow cushions his landing and for a moment, all he feels is pain ricocheting through his bones, but then he's laughing again and the pain doesn't seem to matter.

"Remus? Are you hurt?" Dora falls to her knees beside him, pulls off her mittens, and rests her hands on his cheeks lightly. Her eyes search his and the longer he lies there, the greater the urge to grab her becomes. His laughter dies in his throat and he looks at her sadly.

"Dora…" He covers her hands with his, presses her fingers to his skin, and then pulls them away. Her fingertips drag over his jaw and chin before returning to her lap. Tears fill her eyes and she looks away, biting her bottom lip roughly. He inhales deeply and stares up at the bright, cloudless sky. "It's for the best."

For a long time, they don't move. He watches the sky, watches her out of the corner of his eye, and when he begins to feel warm and drowsy, he knows it's time to get up out of the snow and return to the Burrow. They make slow progress back, walking together and not walking together. She walks ahead of him eventually, smashing the snow down with every step she takes. She doesn't hold the gate for him and doesn't acknowledge that Molly says anything about him when they walk in the front door.

He retreats to a place in the living room with a book and gets lost in the pages. Only he doesn't get lost because all of his senses are honed in on her. He knows where she is, how she's feeling, and after rereading the same page ten times, he snaps the book shut and quietly dismisses himself to his bedroom, where he immediately lays down on the bed and tries to convince himself that he should leave tonight, get an early start on the whole full moon business.

Some time later, there is a quiet knock at the door and then, "Remus? Dinner's ready." He contemplates ignoring her, pretending to be asleep or something equally childish, but in the end, his desire to see her wins out and he walks to the door. The lock slides open, and then the door, and he smiles faintly when he sees her standing in the hallway, her back to the wall.

"Dinner." She says again, resting the sole of her boot against the wall. Her knee juts out into the hallway and when he steps out of his room, he bumps into her and she grabs his waist to steady herself. He feels the contours of her fingers through his shirt and closes his eyes when her fingers push into him. Without thinking he steps forward, closing the space between them, and rests his hands on her shoulders. She smells a bit like food, like she has been helping in the kitchen, and he lowers his head, his face close to hers, and inhales every wonderful smell that surrounds her.

Her hands move up his sides slowly and her right hand pauses, index finger worrying a small hole in the material of his shirt. She lifts her face and they are cheek to cheek and he feels her eyelashes flutter over his skin when she blinks. "Remus," she whispers, bringing a hand to his cheek. Her thumb rubs over his graying stubble and his defenses weaken while the urge to drag her into his room increases.

"Tonks! Remus!" A voice calls from the kitchen and he steps back quickly, breaking contact. Her fingers slide away from him and she pushes herself away from the wall, her cheeks flushed with color. Molly Weasley appears in the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. She watches them for a moment, her eyes moving back and forth between them, and then she waves her hand in the air dismissively.

"We're waiting on you!"

Remus is fully aware that he is blushing as he steps past Molly. "My apologies, Molly. I'm moving a bit slow this evening." He offers her a smile but knows it has come out sheepish and a bit guilty. Tonks clomps along behind him; he's sure she's chewing on her fingers.

Dinner is excruciating but he knows that had no one interrupted them, things would have progressed to a dangerous stage and he couldn't take that risk. He forces his food down despite being starving, and smiles gratefully at Arthur when a bottle of wine is produced and passed around the table.

With a full belly, the wine makes him pleasantly drowsy and after the meal, when everyone moves into the living room to sit around the fireplace, he joins them. Bill offers him a chair as if he is an old man but his joints burn, so he accepts even though doing so makes him feel feeble. Tonks sits across the room from him, beside Ginny, on the floor. The conversation is lighthearted and easy, with everyone laughing, everyone sharing. He feels her eyes on him and wishes he could stop his eyes from wandering over her face every few minutes. This would be so much easier if he could not love her.

The wine bottles begin to litter the already cluttered coffee table and everyone moves toward bed, warm and bleary and a little less worried about the darkness creeping in toward them every day. She says she'll apparate home, she'll be fine, but when she stands up, she stumbles into Fleur with a giggle and Molly shakes her head sternly.

"You'll stay right here is what. Ginny, fresh sheets for your bed." Molly commands with her usual motherly authority. Ginny disappears and Tonks glances in his direction and he wants to hide. He's too drunk for this. Too drunk to cope with any of it, so he excuses himself as politely as possible and makes for his room, his steps unsteady and his heart hammering in his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

He hides in his room, waiting for her to go to bed, but she and Ginny and Hermione are up late, giddy and giggly on wine, and he is afraid to leave his room. Afraid of running into her. So he stretches out on the bed, kicks his shoes off onto the floor, and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his room is bathed in pre-dawn half light and his head swims as he rolls over onto his side. He is hungover, his bones burn down to the marrow, and everything is too bright, too loud, too coarse against his skin. He falls asleep imagining her there with him. He imagines she slips into his room quietly, crawls into bed with him and fits her body to his. He imagines she kisses his shoulder, his neck, that she rests her palm on his stomach and talks to him in a quiet voice that soothes him back into his dreams.

He wakes up to a thunderous crash in the hallway. His clothes stick to his skin and as he sits up, legs over the side of the bed, a wave of nausea hits him full force and he clamps a hand over his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut, and waits for it to pass. Every spare inch of him burns with a fire that should, at this point in his life, be normal but every month it makes him sick, makes him weep in the quiet dark.

The nausea doesn't subside and he knows he has no choice to burst out of his room and stagger to the bathroom. He gets to his door, gets it open. Steps into the hallway. Every step is agony and he braces himself against the wall to keep from falling to his knees. When he reaches the bathroom, it is empty and he stumbles in, pushing at the door and hoping it closes behind him as he reaches blindly for the toilet. He retches until he sees white and the fire grows to the point of immobility. For a long time, he just sits there, hunched and in pain, until finally the fire subsides a little and he pushes away, sitting with his back to the bathtub. His hands shake as he runs them through his disheveled, damp hair.

"Pull it together, old man." He says quietly, swiping the back of one hand across his forehead. He doesn't want anyone to see him this way, in this weakened condition. He certainly doesn't want Dora to know that he is barely capable of moving because then she will worry and she will watch him even more intensely and he's not sure he can resist that kind of temptation.

What he thinks is several minutes is more like fifteen and there's a knock at the bathroom door, which elicits a quiet groan from Remus' mouth. "Is anyone in there?" Another knock. It's Harry and the concern is evident in his tone. "Professor Lupin?"

He musters all of his strength and stands. "I'll be out in a moment, Harry. I'm fine." He leans against the sink and examines his reflection in the mirror. He looks as if he's incredibly ill. He presses his fingers into his gray, clammy skin and sighs heavily before splashing some cold water on his face.

Five minutes later, he's in a fresh pair of clothes and in the kitchen. Breakfast is almost finished and all eyes in the room swing in his direction as he takes the only empty seat at the table, which happens to be beside Dora.

"Good morning, Nymphadora." He summons the bowl of scrambled eggs and plate of bacon, helps himself (more bacon than eggs), and then tucks in while the teapot fills his mug.

Tonks nods, her eyes never leaving his face. "Remus." She watches as he eats his meal ravenously. After a moment, he glances over at her and she leans in, her hand coming to rest on his forearm. "If you need anything..."

He swallows the food in his mouth and nods slowly. "I'm fine, Tonks. Thank you though. I appreciate it. Really."

Her face falls for half a second, her eyes fill with utter sadness and Remus sets down his fork with a wan smile. He places his hand on hers. "Perhaps later you could join me for a walk. I shouldn't be out alone today." The excuse sounds empty and flat to him but Dora nods and smiles and squeezes his arm before pulling away her hand.

After breakfast, he attempts to help with the dishes but Molly shoos him from the kitchen with her motherly clucking. He moves slowly, all pain and fire and misery, into the living room and sits by the fire even though his flesh is burning hot. He rests his head against the back of the chair and closes his eyes. He plans his departure, wonders what he will say to Dora, how he will say goodbye to her again, and he pushes those thoughts out of his mind in favor of his own sanity.

He is running. The snow is cold and packed under his feet, arching pain up through his body, his spine, rocketing into his skull. He runs and he transforms mid-step and the pain is brilliant, bright white, violent, tearing and ripping at everything he is until he becomes something different. He is on the heels of someone. She - he can tell, he can tell it is a female - runs, screams, gasps for air. He smells her fear, smells it dripping off her and it causes his muscles to coil, his mouth to salivate, and he pushes himself harder until he catches her, sharp teeth at one leather-clad ankle. She falls to the ground, snow in her face, and as he circles her, she rolls over onto her back, propped up by her elbows, and he meets her wide, terror-filled eyes, and the last thing he sees before he attacks is her bright pink hair fade to a deep, warm crimson. The color of blood.

Strong hands shake him awake. His eyes snap open, his muscles tense, his chest heaving as he gulps in air. He feels sweat trickle down his neck and under his shirt collar as he grips the arms of the person before him. Arthur. Over Arthur's shoulder, he sees curious and anxious faces watching him and then he sees her and his heart, he swears, stops beating for a full second.

_It was a dream_ he reminds himself but he can taste her blood on his tongue, feel his razor sharp teeth tear her skin, and his stomach turns. He pushes Arthur away, rushes away from all of them and down the hall to the unoccupied bathroom, where he loses his breakfast and chokes on his sobs. He lies in a heap, presses his searing skin to the cool floor, and waits for the tears to stop streaming down his face. This want, this need will kill him. Will kill her.

"Remus? Remus, let me in." She knocks sharply on the door, her voice tight with concern. He charms the door with the most complex spell he can think of and curls in on himself, his arms covering his head. He hears them all murmuring quietly outside but then they disappear and he splashes water on his face, rinses his mouth, and slips out to his bedroom unnoticed.

He sleeps for most of the day, feverish sleep and cloudy dreams. Tomorrow the moon will rise and he'll be among them and his nightmares will become reality. He hates that he will miss Christmas Eve with the Weasleys, hates that he will have to say goodbye to her on such a beautiful day. He dreams that things are different, that he is different and that their lives aren't in danger, that he is simply ill, and she is there, her cool hands on his face, whispering to him that _it's all right, I'm here, Remus. I'm right here._ It seems so real that he opens his eyes, jarring himself from the dream.

But it isn't a dream. Dora has pulled the chair next to the bed and she runs her fingers through his hair gently. It looks as though she has been crying. He turns his head, looks away from her, and wishes like hell he had the strength to tell her to leave. They sit in silence for a long time. His mind wanders and her fingers stroke the back of his hand absently and then he looks at her, fully looks at her. She concentrates on their hands, her lashes dark against her cheeks, and he squeezes her fingers. Their eyes meet and she reaches over, rubs his cheek with the backs of her fingers, and smiles faintly.

"How are you feeling?"

He studies her face, so serious as she presses her palm to his forehead. He loves her so much, so entirely, and wants so badly to stay with her this time that he has to close his eyes. "A bit worse than usual. But I'll survive." He sighs heavily, painfully, and she traces her thumb over his eyebrow.

"Can I get you anything?" Her hand slips back to his cheek, her fingers slide along his jaw and come to rest at his neck. He feels naked and vulnerable and safe. He knows what he must do, fears doing it, and plunges ahead anyway.

"You can leave." He opens his eyes and fixes them on her with as much determination as he can must. "You must leave."

Her hand is suddenly still on his neck. He feels tension bloom in the air and he hardens his gaze (or he hopes he does, he can't be sure how he's looking at the moment). She shakes her head. "I'm not leaving you like this."

"Tonks." Her name is harsh, all angles and sharp lines in his mouth. "Leave."

She dismisses his command with a roll of her eyes. "Remus, you can barely move."

"I don't want you here." He knows that he has hit the mark when the corners of her mouth turn down slightly. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself, he's sure, and squares her shoulders.

"I don't care."

"I. Don't. Want you here. How hard is that to understand?" He struggles to sit up, ignores the pain and the nausea. "There's an entire household of people who I'd rather take care of me." He stands, back straight and shoulders back, and looks at her. His hand barely moves and the door swings open and he raises one eyebrow. "Please leave."

She sits for a moment, fuming quietly, and then rises. As she walks to the door, her hair flushes bright orange from the dull, mousy brown it has been for months. The door rattles in the frame when it slams shut and Remus sinks down onto the bed, a quiet sigh escaping his lips.

Being mean to Dora, being as cruel as he can manage, makes him feel like the worst sort of person. But it is so necessary, so important that she keep her distance, that he keep his. So much hangs in the balance and so many people are depending on what he's learning to help them out in the end. He thinks. He hopes. He hopes it is all worth it, that in the end, they will defeat Voldemort and finally be free to the live the lives they dream of living. He wonders if she will ever forgive him this terrible time now, in the future when he can spend the rest of his life making it up to her.

An hour later, the smell of food draws him from his room but when he walks into the kitchen, when he sits down at the table and sees her sitting several chairs down, her hair back to brown, he loses his appetite. Everyone chatters around him and he feels as though they are the only ones at the table and all the background noise fades. He closes his eyes and concentrates on feeling her there at the table, feeling her close, and the food in his mouth is bland and unappealing.

"I'm sorry." He says quietly, pushing his chair back. "I'm going to go rest." He stands, leaves the kitchen amid the protests of nearly everyone at the table, especially Harry and Hermione, and shuts himself in his room. He lights candles and pulls his chair to the window and watches the snow fall while his mind races. Things must be this way. They must not have contact.


	4. Chapter 4

He will leave tonight, after everyone is asleep. It will be for the best. He needs to get away from The Burrow, away from her presence. He hopes she doesn't stay the night, hopes that she is so angry with him that she'll apparate home and not come back until he is far, far gone.

It takes hours for the house to settle, for the house to ease into the comfortable silence of sleep. Snow continues falling outside and everything glows blueish white. He's lucky that he travels light these days and he needn't worry about packing any bags. His stomach growls as he pulls on an extra pair of socks and decides that before he leaves, he will raid the kitchen because there's no sense is braving the cold and the snow in a weakened state.

He slips out of his bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. His stomach rumbles again and he curses these animalistic urges and their intensity. He damns the full moon as he enters the kitchen, his mind set on the ham he saw on the table at dinner. He is halfway to the cooler when he catches something out of the corner of his eye, a shadow near the sink.

The hair on his arms raises, sending prickles up into his scalp. He turns slowly, meeting her eyes through the darkness. She doesn't say anything, doesn't move. Her eyes are wide, her hair dull, and he can see her pulse hammering in her throat. His eyes train on the spot and he steps forward, without thinking, and reaches for her. He has no control over himself, no control over his body, his limbs. He cups the back of her head in his hand, wraps the other arm around her waist, and pulls her against his body. His mouth finds that spot where her pulse races just under her skin and he exhales with a groan when he smells her, sweet and soft, a bit of soap. She pushes at his shoulders and he pulls back, cradles her face in his hands, and kisses her. She doesn't push him away again, doesn't protest when he backs her against the counter, pinning her with his body.

The full moon is the next night. He feels the beast in every inch of him, in his blood stream, screaming louder and louder the closer they get to the apex of his madness. He wants her, he needs her in a way he has forgotten existed. But he knows, as his mouth moves to her jaw, to her neck, that he has never forgotten this painful desire, this carnal lust for **her**. He has never wanted anyone this way before and doubts he ever will again. 

His hands moved over her body in a fury, finding their way under her jumper, moving lightly, quickly over her soft, warm skin. He presses his fingers into her ribs, feels her inhale and exhale, and he pulls the piece of clothing up her body and over her head. He is vaguely aware of their location, of how easily they could be happened upon, but it doesn't occur to him to mind. He wraps his arms around her, covering her upper body with his own, and holds her there for a moment, absorbing her body warmth, sharing his with her. Her fingers are at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling, tugging, urgent.

"We should...move...somewhere...else." She manages between kisses and gulps of air.

The animal does not care. But he finds a moment's control somewhere inside himself and nods, dragging her away from the counter, out of the kitchen, and down the hall to his room. He shuts the door, presses her against it with the weight of his body, and with his mouth at her neck, he mumbles incantations to charm the door, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the window. Her skin is salty and sweet and when he kisses the base of her throat, traces his tongue along her collarbone, he feels her become a part of him.

She gives up on the buttons and yanks his shirt open, sending buttons flying. They bounce off random objects: a bedpost, the desk, the floor. She pushes his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms until it falls in a heap on the floor. He inhales sharply when she tugs on his belt, loosens it, and unbuttons his pants. She seems driven by the same mindless need as he is and it only spurns him on.

He forgets their earlier conversation and all of his convictions. All of his determination is out the window. He pulls her away from the door, his hands moving under her top again and he pulls the piece of clothing up her body and over her head. She shivers, hands at his sides, and the blinding desire for her overpowers him and his mouth is at her neck, his hands searching for pieces of clothing to remove from her body.

His lack of control frightens him. He is afraid he'll hurt her but his fear isn't enough to stop him from wrapping his arms around her and walking them forward until they reach a bare bit of wall. Her hands tug at his pants and it is all blinding fury and the snow is still falling outside when finally, finally he buries his face in her neck and they move, quietly, slowly, desperately. His hands grip her hips, fingers digging into bare flesh, and there is nothing he can do to stop this now. He hears himself whispering her name, hoarsely, over and over again, breathing the syllables like a prayer into her hair, her neck, her shoulder. She tangles her fingers in his hair, keeps him close, pulls him closer when she presses her heel into the back of his thigh.

It is over too soon. They stand there, at the wall, for a long moment, breathing hard and shaking. He rests his forehead against hers, brushes the hair away from her face, says her name, draws her into his arms. His mind is still clouded, still thinking of her skin, her smell, her taste, and the soft curves he wants to spend the rest of the night re-learning. Her fingers stroke the back of his neck lightly and he shivers, lowers his head and kisses her. She stifles a yawn and without saying a word, he gathers her in his arms. She burrows into him, her face at his neck, as he carries her to the bed.

There is barely room for both of them on the small bed but Dora presses herself against him, her lips at his neck, and they make themselves smaller and smaller until they fit. Until they are practically the same person. He trails his fingers over her back, down her spine, to her hips, her thighs. This is how he would like to spend his last night on earth, wrapped up in this woman he loves without reason, without hesitation. Her presence, her heart beating so close to his own, lulls him into a deep, dreamless sleep but even in his sleep, he knows she is there, feels her warmth, feels her in his arms, against his chest and torso and legs.

His eyes open with ease and for a moment, he forgets where he is, when he is, and it doesn't occur to him to worry that Dora is asleep in his arms, nestled against his chest. He watches her for a moment before brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. He glances toward the window and a shaft of pale, silver light falls across the floor, illuminating the room in a soft, ghostly glow.

It hits him hard, in the chest. The full moon. The full moon is that night, Christmas Eve, and he is in bed with Dora, her naked skin pressed to his naked skin, and he reeks of her. He knows he reeks of her. Of them. Together. He looks down at her, her face so peaceful, and deep, sharp, piercing regret floods his chest. Why? Why was he such a fool? Why did he do it? Why?

He slips from the bed, careful not to wake her, and pulls on his clothes hastily, his eyes trained on her sleeping form. This is a mistake. It was a mistake. The animal in him moves languidly under the surface, sated, and he curses himself for not having more control, for not finding the human side of his logic and applying it before he put her life in such grave, grave danger.

There is no time to grab any of his belongings, not even a bite to eat before he must leave. He lifts his shirt to his nose as he opens the bedroom door and his jaw clenches almost involuntarily. Everything of his smells like her. The pack will know before he even arrives that he has been with her and they will use it against him in the worst way imaginable.

He washes up in the bathroom, ignores the burning pain in his bones, in his joints. No amount of soap can remove her from him completely and he swears quietly as he dresses again. He needs new clothes, things that are not his, and he needs them immediately. He moves through the house with an agility he always forgets he has until he reaches the laundry room. He digs through the various bits of clothing until he finds a few things of Arthur's and a few things of Bill's that will keep him warm against the elements for a few days. He sheds his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, pulls on the new pieces, and then stops, leans against the door jamb, and forces himself to stop shaking.

Five minutes later, he is back in his bedroom, standing beside the bed. Dora's face is relaxed and beautiful in sleep; she is truly vulnerable and perfect and now he must hurt her. He must break her into a thousand pieces. He must take the thing that will destroy her and use it to protect her. He leans down, presses his lips to her forehead, her cheek, and pulls back the blanket to touch her side, just below her ribs. He tucks the blanket around her again, kisses her cheek, and forces himself to take a step back. Then another. And then several more until he is in the hallway and making his way to the front door.

He takes one of Arthur's cloaks from the closet and drapes it over his shoulders before walking outside into the crisp, bone chilling cold. A few miles up the lane, there lies a farm where he will stop and attempt to cover her scent, attempt to make it appear that he has not been living among wizards for the past few days. With each step he takes, he hates himself a little more. He knows she will wake up in a few hours and will find herself alone in his bed. He knows he will not see her for a long time after this because this will shatter her, just as it is shattering him now. He worries she will never forgive him, will never agree to see him again once this is over, and he wonders if this will be the thing that breaks him completely. He wonders if maybe he should just lay down in the snow and wait until his mind is hazy and all he has to do is fall asleep. But he cannot. He knows he cannot. He is doing this for something bigger and more important than himself. He's doing it for her. He's doing it for them. For the hope of their future together. And so he pushes himself forward, onward, into the darkest part of his night and the darkest part of hers.

(c) 2008


End file.
